Page 55 of Born to Sin

Bam said, “But you’re coming over tonight, right? Bring Beckett and the kids. I’m making chicken cream enchiladas. Your dad loves those, and I’m sure Beckett would, too. He doesn’t look like he’s eating enough to me. I’ll bet he barely manages lunch. Men never eat great on their own.”

“He’s not on his own,” Quinn said. “There are three of them. Four, if you count the dog. And I’d better skip it. I’ll come next week, but I’m not sure when they’re moving in. I need to get ready for that, and to check out the Hope Center for some furniture for Troy. He’s going to be sleeping in the attic, and—”

“No,” Bam said. “If Beckett wants to buy furniture,hecan buy furniture.”

“Except that he’d be furnishing my house,” Quinn pointed out.

“Exactly how is that a problem? Everybody knows Brett Hunter pays good money, and Beckett’s his construction manager. He can afford to buy his son his own furniture—secondhandfurniture—and he’d rather do it.”

“I—” Quinn began.

“Take him over there and shop with him if you want. But when he pulls out his wallet, lose the fight.”

“Oh,” Quinn said, “that’s great. Starting out by playing games.”

“No,” her mother said. “Starting out by letting him keep his own power. He’s going to be in your house, using your things. He’s going to be living by your rules, and that’s not going to come easy. Don’t take the man’s pride away from him.”

“I can never decide,” Quinn said, “whether you’re incredibly wise or incredibly manipulative.”

“I’m both,” Bam said. “I’m in sales.”

24

WATER PLAY

Something was odd here.

Quinn was oddly subdued after that shopping trip to her parents’ store. She took him to a charity shop, pointed out a couple of likely prospects when he’d barely started looking around, and explained that Troy would need a bed if Janey was going to have sleepovers, and also a new mattress that Beckett would have to buy online or from a store, because you couldn’t sell those secondhand in the States. Two steps ahead of him the whole way, but when he pulled out his wallet at the checkout, expecting her to put up a fight about paying for the tallboy, side table, extra towels, and carpet she’d found, she opened her mouth, shut it, stepped back, and said, “Go ahead.”

He glanced back at her in surprise. “What,” she said, “you think I should pay? So do I. It’s my house. Here.”

She pulled her wallet from her jacket pocket and was setting her card on the counter when he slapped his own card down and said, “No. Put your money away.”

The clerk, a middle-aged woman peering over the top of her specs, ceased her extremely slow recording of his purchases, looked between the two of them, and asked, “Whose card should I use? Whoops, I forgot the rug. Sorry. It’s my first day.” And went back to her anxious scanning and peering.

“Christie Fallon, isn’t it?” Quinn asked. “Are you a volunteer?”

“I am,” the woman said, her color rising. Also abandoning the recording. “I asked them not to put me on the register, but they said it was easy. Sorry, I’m still pretty slow.”

“That’s great that you’re helping out,” Quinn said. “I keep thinking I should volunteer, too, but—”

“Oh, no,” the woman said. “You already do so much. Being on boards and everything? Seems like I read about you every day. I’m just at home with nothing else to do but work in the garden, and that’s over now. I love Montana, but we’ve got one heck of a short growing season, don’t we?”

Beckett didn’t tap his card on the counter, but he wanted to.

“I’m not afraid to talk, that’s all,” Quinn said. “So they tend to put me out in front, while everybody else works behind the scenes and gets no credit. Like you. Don’t sell yourself short. How many people step up like you’re doing? Not many.”

“Oh, I don’t know …” the woman said, as Troy stage-whispered, “Dad, I think Bacon is probably getting very lonely.”

When he drove Quinn back to her house again and was, as usual, standing on the sidewalk with her, Quinn texted him the link to the American version of Gumtree and said, “You should be able to find the rest of your list from somebody, if you’re willing to haul it. Or I could get it after—” She cut herself off, then asked, “What do you think, move in next weekend? I could come over and—” And looked as uncomfortable as possible.

“Yeah,” he said. “Saturday? And we’ve got it. We flew over with two bags apiece, and we haven’t bought much since. Other than today, because I’m not sure if I’m outfitting a kid here, or a Disney princess. Surprised there wasn’t a ballgown in there.”

“Fine,” she said, not even rising to the bait and explaining that all those clothes were absolutely necessary, and how she’d consulted a selection of the foremost authorities in preteen wardrobe curation long before Beckett had even formed the thought of shopping. “Oh. Keys, in case I’m not home. I’ll get some extras cut, though I don’t always lock it if I’m just running out.”

“I noticed,” he said. “Seemed odd, when you’d just had that stoush with the ex-date.”

She didn’t tell him it wasn’t his business, which was another surprise. She was reaching into her jacket pocket instead—the woman did not believe in purses—and saying, “I had them with me this whole time, too. Shoot, I should’ve had Dad do that while we were at the store. Never mind, I’ll run back now, then swing by your place and—”

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